


Blood Buzz

by there_must_be_a_lock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Knifeplay, Mirror Sex, Sam Winchester on Demon Blood, Smut, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27680066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/there_must_be_a_lock/pseuds/there_must_be_a_lock
Summary: “Me or you?” she asks, barely more than a whisper. She’s staring at him and that’s definitely not fear in her eyes. It’s not fear and it’s not revulsion, even though Sam deserves both.“Me.”She nods jerkily and takes the blade. “Sit in the chair for me? I don’t want blood on my sheets.”He strips down and sits. It’s the chair of her little dressing table, so Sam’s facing the mirror, and his reflection is glassy-eyed and flushed.He looks almost as fucked up as he feels.
Relationships: Sam Winchester/Reader, Sam Winchester/You
Kudos: 25





	Blood Buzz

**Author's Note:**

> Title and inspiration from "Bloodbuzz Ohio" by the National.

“Long time no see, Sam,” she says softly. 

She smiles as she lets him in. It’s sweet. _She’s_ sweet. It’s been a while; he forgot how sweet she can be. 

Sam’s having second thoughts. She deserves better than him. 

They’ve always been so rough with each other that it still surprises him how tender she can be, how beatifically she smiles when he runs his fingers over the bruises, afterward. This is new, though, and he thinks it might push the limits of what she likes. He shouldn’t ask her for this. 

It’s not too late to back out. He could ask Ruby. He knows she’d like it. 

She’d use it against him, though, with her smirk and her sneer. She’d tell him how fucked-up he is, she’d tell him it’s what he deserves, and that’s too close to the truth right now. He’s not sure he wants to hear it. 

He goes to the bathroom, pulls out the flask, takes a long pull. Ruby’ll be back tomorrow; he has plenty to last him until then. It burns a little when he licks his lips. He tucks the flask away and looks at himself in the mirror, baring his teeth to make sure the blood isn’t visible. 

Can she see it on him? Does she _know_ that he’s not the same Sam she met two years ago? 

His skin is starting to itch. The blood is fizzing as it settles into his veins, like his entire body is starting to wake up, an undercurrent of lust like a hum mixed with a quiet ferocity that has him _vibrating_ with the need to sink his teeth into something. Everything is intensified; the cool air on his skin feels like a caress. 

She’s waiting for him on the bed, stretched out unselfconsciously in just a tank top and underwear, and she checks him out with a grin as he pulls his shirt off. 

“Lookin’ good,” she comments.

He’s too high for banter. 

“I was hoping you could do something for me,” he says quietly, hands in his pockets, fingering the flask in one and the folded jackknife in the other. 

She just looks curious. “Yeah?” 

He pulls the knife out, unfolding it, eyes catching on the way the wicked edge of it gleams in the low light. He holds it out to her, handle first — trying to breathe steadily — trying not to let her see how much he wants this. 

“Me or you?” she asks, barely more than a whisper. She’s staring at him and that’s definitely not fear in her eyes. It’s not fear and it’s not revulsion, even though Sam deserves both. 

“Me.” 

She nods jerkily and takes the blade. “Sit in the chair for me? I don’t want blood on my sheets.” 

He strips down and sits. It’s the chair of her little dressing table, so Sam’s facing the mirror, and his reflection is glassy-eyed and flushed. 

He looks almost as fucked up as he feels. 

_Almost_.

She tests the edge of the knife on her fingernail and something about the flash of metal in delicate fingers has his heart pounding. She stands in front of him, between him and the mirror, and if she notices that he’s already half-hard, she doesn’t say anything about it. 

He has to look up to meet her eyes, like this, and it’s unsettling. 

“Where?” she asks. He shrugs and she presses, “Is there anywhere you don’t want me to cut?” 

“Aside from the obvious? Nah. I don’t care.” 

She bites her lip at that, something strange flickering over her face, but she doesn’t challenge it. 

“Same safe word?” 

“Yeah.” 

She holds the flat of the knife to his jaw. Sam can feel the cool metal, and he shivers, the thrill of it running down his spine. The way she licks her lips makes him think he’s not the only one enjoying this. 

He can still taste copper. 

She drags the very tip of the blade down the side of his neck — not enough to break skin, just a graze — and in, to the hollow of his throat. Sam closes his eyes and swallows hard and the movement, the ripple of muscle, presses his skin against the blade. His hands curl into fists where they’re resting on his thighs. 

The feather-light whisper of it traces down the center of his chest. Just a few inches to the left, Sam thinks, and if she slid the knife in just right, got it neatly between the ribs, she could stab him in the heart. 

Instead she grabs his left wrist and raises it. Sam feels the tickle of the knife point on his palm and his wrist, and then she presses it to the inside of his forearm. 

The bright clean bite of it barely registers as pain. His cock throbs and his heart races, and when he opens his eyes and looks down at the blood, his gut twists and his skin sings, like his body is reminding him that he’s had enough; this isn’t for drinking. 

She slices again, just below the first, shallow and steady. Sam’s breath catches. He can’t figure out whether it’s pain or pleasure he’s feeling. The two sensations have gotten all tangled together. He doesn’t particularly care. Either way, he’s hard as hell. 

She takes his other wrist and does the same thing, slowly, drawing it out. 

She’s getting off on this too, Sam realizes; her cheeks are stained red and her pupils are huge. 

The peaks of her nipples, hard and obvious, are visible through the thin white cotton of her tank top, right at Sam’s eye level. He leans forward and takes a nipple between his teeth gently. She moans, arching her back a little, and her grip on his wrist tightens. Sam laves his tongue over it and then sucks, feeling the pebbled skin get harder between his lips. 

He leans back, admiring the wet patch where his mouth was and the way the fabric clings to her. She cuts him again while he’s still staring; it takes him by surprise and he lets out a harsh, rough groan. 

“More?” she asks, breathing heavily. Sam nods.

She drops his wrist and drags the knife along his inner thigh, instead, tracing the thin sensitive skin before slicing just above his knee, pulling the metal across the skin and leaving a trail of fiery pain in its wake. Sam sucks in a deep breath, chest heaving. She repeats it on the opposite side, slow and almost lazy, taking her time, like she’s savoring the sight of the blood welling up and pearling along the cut.

“ _Enough_.” 

She turns to put the knife on the dresser, and he grabs her by the waist, holding her there with her back to him as he tugs her panties down. She gets her shirt off, and Sam pulls her down onto his lap, holding her flush to his chest with one arm. 

He can see their reflections in the mirror, and he watches over her shoulder as he manhandles her into place and gets her knees hooked over his, so that when he spreads his legs, she has no choice but to spread hers. He dips a hand down to her cunt, using two fingers to bare her completely. It’s obvious, in the mirror, how wet she is, skin glistening slick with arousal. She blushes patchy red all the way down her chest. 

Her body is soft and hot against his as she squirms, wriggling into place until the head of Sam’s cock is pressed right up against all that wet slick heat, and she sinks down fast and desperate, head falling back on his shoulder. 

The first velvety squeeze of her is almost too much for Sam. The salt of her sweat is stinging the cuts on his arms and thighs, and he moans low in his chest. 

She can’t move much like this, but she trembles all over when he starts tracing circles over her clit. When Sam bucks his hips up, a quick little thrust, he can see everything in the mirror: the way her breasts jiggle, the way her mouth goes slack in a gorgeous red O, even the thick, flushed-dark base of his cock, shining wet where it’s splitting her open. 

She’s shaking almost violently in his arms. He knows what she likes, knows exactly how to touch her to get her off hard and fast, and she’s already so close. Sam can feel her entire body tense up as he works her swollen clit. Her back arches and she leans back, twisting her hips frantically, giving Sam a filthy, pornographic view of the way she’s stretched around him. 

“Forgot how good you look stuffed full of my cock,” he snarls, punctuating the words with a bite to the curve of her neck. She shudders and lets out a long jagged whimpering moan, grinding down, jerking forward against his fingers as she loses control. 

It’s too much to feel and see all at once. Sam’s eyes roll back and he squeezes them shut, too overwhelmed to watch as she comes, her cunt clamping down in little rippling waves of drenching silk. 

He grips the side of the chair with one hand, giving himself some leverage, and hooks his other arm around her ribs, forearm between her breasts, hand splayed out over her chest as he holds her where he wants her. He fucks up into her with sharp little thrusts. 

Sam opens his eyes and the sight punches the breath out of his lungs. It’s not just the sheen of sweat on her skin, or the soft jiggle of her curves, or the obscene glaze of her slickness all over his cock, even though that’s one hell of a view. When he moved, adjusting his grip, the open wounds on his forearms smeared blood up her belly and down her side. The dark streaks of it paint her skin and mingle with her sweat.

A fresh bead of blood from his arm trickles down her abdomen as he watches. 

It’s like something else takes over, some feral animal that’s been lurking in his ribcage. He growls, hips snapping up, everything obliterated but the wild primal need, and the demon-ness inside him is _screaming_ as he lets go. 

He feels the pulse of his orgasm through his entire body, a head-to-toe white-hot throb, and then wave after wave of relief as he shudders through it. He bites down on her shoulder to muffle the choked-out sobs that wrack his body with the aftershocks. She hisses, pained, but squeezes around him in a rush of flooded heat. 

Sam’s shivering. 

He can’t look at himself in the mirror, for a moment; part of him is afraid of what he’ll see. Whatever took over his body might be staring back with big black eyes. The high is fading, but the demon blood is still buzzing under his skin. 

“We should shower,” she says hoarsely, wriggling off his lap. “Get those cuts clean.” 

“Sure. I’m right behind you,” he tells her. 

He watches her go, then looks cautiously at his reflection. It’s just the familiar hazel clearly visible around dilated pupils. 

No monster. No excuse. Just Sam. 

He swallows his rage and reaches for the flask. 


End file.
